Though every nerve in him seemed to thrill, it was done deliberately, and he found that he could see almost as clearly from the lower level.
Then he waited, with the rifle in his left hand, and that elbow on his knee, until there was a faint crackling, and a slightly larger patch of fur emerged from the thicket.

He held his breath as he stiffened his left fingers on the barrel and dropped his cheek on the butt.
There would, he knew, be only one shot, a long one, and, while it was not particularly easy to get the sight on that little patch, it was considerably handier to keep it there.

Besides, he was not sure that the rear slide was high enough, for the light was puzzling.

It might very well throw him a foot out in the elevation.
He crouched, haggard, ragged, savage-eyed, steadying himself with a strenuous effort, while the little bead of foresight wavered.

It moved upward and back again half an inch or so while his finger slowly contracted on the trigger.